It seems that no matter where you go, there is always some type of standard dictating how you should look. I was six years old when I moved to the States. As a child, you don’t notice that you look different from everybody else in your first grade class. I was in the fifth grade when I got the questions, “Why do your eyes look like that?” or “Is that why you wear glasses?” These types of questions were natural — children are curious, after all. However, as I got older, casual remarks started to become cruel: “Do you have a wider peripheral vision because your eyes are so slanted?” and “Have you ever opened your eyes really wide and pretended to be white?” Questions like these shaped many of my interactions in school, and for much of my teenage years, I tried to move out of my body, and run as far away from the word “Asian” as I possibly could.
It’s strange to grow up in a country where you do not resemble the majority. My first crush was on a boy who told me simply that he” didn’t like Chinese people.” Even at 12 years old, it was a comment that stung. No matter how hard you try, society’s standards for what is “attractive” do not match up to what stares back when you look into the mirror, and back then, this realization frustrated me more than you could know. Tans were beautiful in America, as were facial features that looked like Barbie’s and waistlines to match. At 15, I resented my sallow skin for not being a golden tan, despised my height for depriving me of long, beautiful legs, and most of all, hated my eyes for their size, their distinctness, and the fact that they very obviously gave away my ethnicity to a world that found it a novelty. Maybe I was tired of the jokes people would make about Asian people, or just wanted to get away from the blatant racism that many people laughed off as a form of comedy. This may sound funny to you, but oddly enough, I never did learn to “love it long time.” The same way I had moved out of Korea and into the United States, I wanted to move out of my body. I wanted to experience being beautiful to a society whose standards were not only too high for me, but suggested that I was irrelevant. At the end of the day, I hated being “the Asian girl.” I hated the fact that I was overlooked or made into a comedic relief over something I could not control. I hated the fact that my only memorable trait seemed to be my ethnicity. Why couldn’t I be Cindy, not just “Asian girl?”
I realized something as I got older, though: Those standards are complete bullshit. My relevance and my beauty have nothing to do with those standards. Those standards are there for the sole purpose of giving everyone something to be insecure about. Why couldn’t we all find something to love about ourselves? Why couldn’t my “Asian-ness” be something I could embrace? Maybe growing up, I took those cruel jokes to heart and felt as though those things defined me. I cannot go back in time and change my resentment towards myself, but I can say this: No longer do I thrive off of acceptance. So yes, I am Asian. Yes, my eyes are smaller than yours. They are also my mother’s, and they look lovely framed by winged eyeliner. The fact that I am Asian will always be obvious, and that is no longer my problem. My ethnicity is a part of me, and it is something I am proud to represent. Beauty is completely arbitrary, and your self-worth is defined by yourself, not your classmates or society. You only have one body, and your best bet is to give it all the love and respect that it deserves.
Photo Credits:
Beautyandthecat.com